Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda (32 page)

“Was Loralee in the house the whole time I was there?”

“Yup. She hid in a closet while Pauline gave you the tour. When you left, Pauline went to the bathroom, and Loralee scoped out Mark’s office. She didn’t have much time to look and she didn’t find much before she got the hell out. But she came back the morning you saw her PT Cruiser. That was supposed to be a ‘courtesy call’ on George’s behalf, requesting that Pauline reconsider his cash offer. Of course, Pauline couldn’t come to the door.”

“Because she was lying at the bottom of the basement stairs,” I said. “Why was George so determined to buy back the house?”

“If the school owns it and Loralee works at the school, George can figure out a way to keep her and the kid in it. Like the way Stevie and Tate lived in that cottage on campus. Everybody knows Tate is George’s son. They got the same eyes.”

The twinkle, I thought. Over dinner, Stevie had mentioned that her son’s eyes were his best feature. To her, they were the feature that marked him as George’s own.

“Who’s taking care of Tate now?” I said.

“That’s where things get interesting. George is gonna be single soon, thanks to a little legal action called divorce. Stevie aided that effort, by the way. Your friend MacArthur interviewed her about George, and she spilled his secrets.”

“Anouk helped, too,” I said.

“Yup,” Jenx said. “By the way, that was George’s wife who made the anonymous call to the station telling us to check George’s background. She was mad as hell at him and wanted to make extra trouble. She forgot we have Caller ID.”

According to Jenx, the court would no doubt decide that George was Tate’s father and award him custody. In the meantime, Tate’s attorney—paid for by George—had worked a deal so that the kid could stay with Loralee and Gigi.

“Maybe Anouk’s grown children can move in with them, too,” I said. “And make one big dysfunctional family.”

The Goh Cup’s front door opened, and in came Chester with two dogs on leads.

“Hey, buddy,” Jenx said. “I don’t think you can bring dogs in here.”

“Yes, he can,” Peg piped up from behind the counter, where she was brewing more coffee. “I’ve changed my policy. The Goh Cup is now a pet-friendly establishment.”

Even so, I couldn’t take my eyes off the dogs. Chester had managed to leash and civilize a most unlikely pair, Abra and Sandra Bullock.

The dogs appeared to have had their bodies taken over by tranquil aliens. Abra looked normal, albeit much better groomed, and Sandra was smartly dressed in a Santa suit, complete with shiny black boots and a tasseled cap. Both hounds wagged their tails and checked the air for delicious scents. Abra sniffed delicately, whereas the French bulldog snort-snuffled.

“How—?” I began.

My young neighbor wrinkled his nose to skooch his fogged wire-rimmed glasses back into place. Both mittened hands were occupied with leashes.

“Jeb dropped us off. We just came from pet therapy,” Chester announced. “Anouk says the girls had a breakthrough.”

Either that or double lobotomies, I thought.

“What happened?”

He frowned. “You know Anouk can’t say. Patient confidentiality.”

“They’re my pets, and she’s a pet psychic,” I pointed out.

“Okay,” he sighed. “She did past-life regressions, and it turns out Abra and Sandra Bullock were sisters, once upon a time.”

“Sisters,” I repeated. “Were they Affies or Frenchies?”

Trying to imagine either of their personalities switching breeds made my head hurt.

“Neither. They weren’t even dogs. They were movie stars. Abra was Olivia de Havilland, and Sandra was Joan Fontaine.”

“Ooooh, that’s bad,” Peg murmured, approaching our table with a fresh carafe of coffee. “Those two were jealous of each other their whole careers. Check IMDB.”

“Or Wikipedia,” Chester said. “The rivalry goes back to their childhoods. Olivia used to tear up Joan’s clothes, so Joan had to sew them back together. Apparently, Olivia was their mother’s favorite, and that created a whole lifetime of trouble. Several lifetimes of trouble.”

Everyone stared at me, including the dogs.

“Hey, it’s not my fault they hate each other.”

“But you’re perpetuating the cycle,” Chester explained, “unless you stop favoring Abra.”

I studied the Affie. Her long blonde tresses gleamed in the morning light streaming through the Goh Cup’s big windows. In her rhinestone collar with her patrician profile and stately bearing, she did indeed look like a leading lady.

My gaze shifted to the stocky Frenchie. She peered up at me from under the faux fur trim of her red Santa hat. Born to play comedy, she was more a Sandra Bullock than a Joan Fontaine, for sure. Even so, the boys she met in this life instantly sniffed out her sex appeal.

“De Havilland and Fontaine might still be alive,” I said.

“I think they are,” Chester confirmed. “But that doesn’t matter. Anouk says animal spirits can visit many lives.”

I sighed. “What’s the next step?”

“Anouk recommends family psychic therapy, you and Jeb included,” Chester said. “In the meantime, just try to be fair. Let Sandra know you accept and welcome her. Abra should follow your lead.”

“Abra has never followed my lead,” I said. “Even when I leash her.”

“We speak metaphorically, Whiskey.”

Peg perked up the whole affair by serving doggie biscuits to the bitches and a huge mug of hot chocolate to Chester. I cheerfully imbibed another round of peppermint mocha, and Jenx did the same. Thank goodness Peg’s business was better, and so was her mental outlook. Surrounding herself with thirsty people and their pets seemed to be exactly what she needed. Now, if she would just agree to speak with Mom again.

Our little group at the Goh Cup had just finished our hot beverages and doggie treats when Jeb walked in. Apparently coached by Anouk, my fiancé made a huge show of hugging both hounds at the same time. So far, so good. He invited me to take a drive with him.

“What about Joan and Olivia?” I whispered.

“I’ll get Chester and the girls home,” Jenx offered. “Two days before Christmas, it’s a little slow at the station.”

Jeb had a plan. Once we settled in his Z4, he proposed we take a nice long drive up the coast.

“I have work waiting for me on my desk,” I objected. “Any minute now, Mom will call to nag me.”

“Turn off your phone. We need to relax and talk about where we want to go on our honeymoon.”

“Honeymoon? We haven’t even picked a date for the wedding.”

“Start planning,” Jeb said. “You don’t want that license to expire.”

He was referring to our marriage license. The day after my brush with death at The Bentwood School, Jeb had convinced me to follow up on his proposal by getting our marriage license.

“It’s good for thirty-three days,” I said.

“And we have thirty left.” Jeb patted my belly. “I’m guessing you might want to do the deed before this little guy or gal ends up in the wedding party.”

I had already made clear that I wanted a private ceremony officiated by a Justice of the Peace and witnessed by two close friends to be named later. Jeb had no problem with any of that, so I supposed I should humor him and start checking my calendar. Like a good fiancée, I opened the scheduling app on my phone and thumbed through the touch-sensitive pages. He turned the car onto Broken Arrow Highway, and we headed north.

He must have driven us in a big circle, however. The next time I glanced up, we were pulling into the parking lot at Mother Tucker’s, which was empty.

“Why are we here?” I said. “Where’s all their business? It’s almost lunch time.”

“I almost forgot. Walter and Jonnie asked me to stop by and talk with them about playing a New Year’s Eve gig. It’ll just take a minute, Whiskey. You might as well come in.”

Considering how much I liked the couple who owned my favorite restaurant and how little I’d seen of them lately, I was fine with this side trip. However, I was puzzled by their lack of customers. Trade at every other local establishment had improved since the weather turned Christmassy.

I paused at the front door, where a handwritten sign read:

CLOSED UNTIL 5 PM

“Weird,” I mumbled.

Jeb opened the door, and I stepped inside, momentarily blinded by the shift from sunlight and white snow to restaurant dimness. The place was silent.

“Hello!” Jeb called out.

“Surprise!” a chorus of voices replied.

I made out a large shadowy crowd moving toward us. It felt like a friendly crowd.

“Surprise?” I repeated the word as a question. “Surprise what?”

“Welcome to your surprise bridal shower, Whitney,” Mom said, throwing her arms around me. “Jeb helped me plan this, didn’t you, son?”

I glared at my fiancé, whose face was becoming clear as my eyes adjusted. He wore an ear-to-ear grin.

Howard stood next to Mom. Beyond them, the room was filled with almost everybody I knew and loved in Magnet Springs—and even a few folks I wouldn’t have invited.

Noonan was there, of course, giving me the peace sign, or maybe it was a V for victory. Her permanent spouse Fenton Flagg had returned to town for this event, which meant that his companion dog, Norman the Golden, was around here somewhere. That was good news for Abra since Norman was her true canine love.

Fenton, with whom I had once spent an excruciatingly awkward night, offered me a bear hug and reminded me that he had been the first to identify Jeb as my “permanent spouse.”

“This is your fate, Whiskey. Now go with the matrimonial flow.”

Odette, wearing Dolce & Gabbana, had brought her handsome husband Reginald, a psychiatrist who rarely attended public events. With them were several of Mattimoe Realty’s high-rolling clients. Our property manager Luís Regalo was there, too, along with part-time handyman Roy Vickers, who was also Chester’s formerly estranged grandfather.

Brady and Roscoe were present, of course. I noticed that Brady kept the K9 officer on a short leash. Also in attendance was Martha Glenn, senile octogenarian owner/operator of Town ’n’ Gown, our local upscale clothier. She wore a party hat and a T-shirt that said “Kiss me. Life begins at 40.”

My heart jumped for joy when I spotted Dr. David Newquist, our town veterinarian, and his girlfriend Deely Smarr, the Coast Guard nanny I hired for Avery’s newborn twins. I knew they had been abroad promoting radical animal rights. Deely congratulated me and showed off her own shiny shackle.

“We just got back from the Rain Forest, ma’am. It was so inspiring, we got married.”

“That’s white,” Dr. David said. “Good wuhks and a honeymoon, aww wode into one.”

Translation: “That’s right. Good works and a honeymoon all rolled into one.” I no longer had trouble understanding his speech impediment.

Avery was there, too, with the twins. Fourteen-month-old Leah and Leo were as tickled to see me as I was to see them. Their mom perched on a barstool, texting, while mostly ignoring me, which I considered a major favor. I assumed she was communicating with her own fiancé, MacArthur.

Wells Verbelow, the first man I dated after Leo’s death, and the judge who presided over Abra’s purse-snatching trials, had brought an attractive professional-looking woman as his date. He whispered to me that she was an attorney in the next county, and he was smitten. He planned to pop the question on Christmas Eve. I squeezed his hand and wished him luck.

Of course, I laughed and cried with my good ol’ buds, Walter and Jonnie St. Mary. The sweetest gay couple—make that, the sweetest couple—I knew, they had kept me well-fed and sane through the numb months of my new widowhood. Although their restaurant was open for lunch and dinner only, they had made sure I got breakfast every day, too, for almost six months. Now they were only too pleased to host a celebration of brighter, happier times.

“But where did everybody park?” I asked Walter.

“Give your mother credit for that deception,” he said, his thick white hair shining. “She ordered a shuttle bus to pick everyone up.”

“There will be a few stragglers,” Jonnie predicted. He was usually nervous and under-confident about everything except his cooking skills, which were world-class.

Walter winked at me. “You’ll be happy to see ’em. Most of ’em.”

With that, the front door opened, and in rushed Chester with Abra and Sandra still on leashes, looking exactly as I had left them at the Goh Cup. Peg and Jenx followed. My mom rushed to hug Peg, and the two stood embracing for a long, wonderful moment.

Anouk arrived, too, with Napoleon. A red leather collar complemented his black pompadour. I held my breath, but the girl dogs from Vestige behaved like ladies, even though one of them was dressed as Santa. Today Abra only had eyes for Norman, much as I only had eyes for Jeb.

Our final guests arrived, Cassina, the pop harpist diva, and her black-clad entourage. I noticed that Rupert, Chester’s nominal father—read: sperm donor—did not appear. Cassina was Chester’s mother of record, if not his actual on-duty mom. Day servants and dogs generally filled that role. Today, for a casual public appearance, she wore a modified mummy suit, a body-length wrap of pigment-free fabric that exposed only her dainty hands, feet and most of her alabaster face, plus a few loose strands of scarlet hair. Cassina’s wide eyes were astonishingly deep green, and she tinted her fingernails and toenails to match. Slender gold and emerald rings adorned all twenty digits. Even in late December with snow on the ground, Cassina wore leather sandals.

As if on a cloud, she drifted over to me and delicately placed a wrapped package in my hands.

“It’s not a puppy, is it?” I asked, recalling her one and only previous “present.”

“Hell, no,” she replied in that trademark breathy voice. “This is something with your name on it. For when you can drink again, like a normal woman. Raising a kid requires sedation.”

“Amen, sister!” Avery shouted from the bar.

When my ex-step flicked her pink tongue, I did the same back at her. Cassina’s eyes wandered to the many shiny bottles behind the bar, and she was gone.

Velcro and Prince Harry were present, no doubt escorted by one of Cassina’s aides. The dogs ran in circles, mostly, but they didn’t bother anybody. I also glimpsed Wells Verbelow’s trained tracking dog, Mooney the Rotthound, slobbering all over the polished wood floor. I only hoped that Martha Glenn wouldn’t slip and crack a hip. In all, we had eight canines present, and every one of them behaved beautifully.